


The Queen of Love

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Halloween, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 14:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: While out of town for a work event, Harry and Hermione are forced to stay in a shabby, worn-down cottage. Soon, they realize that strange things are afoot—and that they aren't the only occupants this Halloween.





	The Queen of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [HalloweenHarmonyComp2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HalloweenHarmonyComp2018) collection. 



> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling.
> 
> Written for Harmony and Co.'s Something Wicked This Way Comes Competition, and it got all these awesome things:  
> Winner: Overall Favorite; Comedy Genius; Best Execution of Prompt; Most Creative  
> Runner Up: Best Fluff; Most Unique Story
> 
> Thanks so much to the admins for their amazing work! Love to LightofEvolution for being wonderful and talking me through this prompt! And to all those who read, kudos'ed, commented, and/or voted for this fic...THANK YOU!
> 
>  **Prompt:**  
>  Harry takes Hermione to a haunted house/maze and she freaks out (or the other way around).

Denise Delaney lived for two things: romance and photography.

The latter, ironically, was what killed her. Obsessed as she was of capturing a perfect sunset over the Lowther Hills on film, she had been too busy framing the sherbet clouds in her viewfinder to mind her footing. She tumbled down a steep face, breaking her crown like the proverbial Jack.

When she was alive, it was the former that drove her friends and family mad—for Denise was fixated on _everyone’s_ love life but her own. She styled herself as the town's Cupid, playing matchmaker to the lonely and heartbroken. She was the emissary of passion; the envoy for _un marriage d’amour._

Never mind that none of her matches ever made it past the first date.

After her death, her house exchanged several hands. It was repurposed as a vacation rental at the turn of the century. With a revolving door of owners and houseguests, Denise tried her best to accomplish in death what she failed to do in life: create a love match of the ages.

And for seven decades, she had a perfect record of _zero_ “happily ever afters.”

Her lack of success did nothing to diminish her desire to _try_. Sure, for most of the year, she was merely an eerie presence in the house, able to do nothing more than drop the ambient temperature a few degrees. She used it to her advantage, however, hoping to get her potential love matches to snuggle under the covers.

This tactic had also been ineffective, resulting in negative customer reviews for the property being too drafty.

But now, it was Halloween—a time when she could reach through the veil between her plane of existence and the land of the living. A period when she could touch, be heard, be _seen_ —an exciting event for someone with little else to do three hundred and sixty-four nights a year.

As sunlight waned, an even more spectacular treat arrived at the front door: new houseguests—a pretty young woman and a dashing young man.

She hovered over them, unseen, to assess her potential candidates. Neither wore a ring on their left hand. They kept a respectful distance from each other as they appraised the two-bedroom cottage. A light touch on the shoulder; a laugh at an inside joke. Old friends, from the comfortable way they interacted.

Her heart soared as her imagination ran wild. Surely they were friends—no, _best_ friends. Perhaps one was in love with the other; maybe it was unrequited love. Or—Denise rubbed her palms in glee—perhaps neither realized just how much they want to be together. If Denise had a corporeal form, it would swoon.

As her new guests dragged their luggage behind them and peeked inside cozy rooms, Denise giggled with anticipation.

* * *

 

Her eyes narrowed with misgiving; darted around the shadowy living space; grazed over dull, outdated kitchen appliances; and traveled down the dim, narrow hallway. Her normally full lips were thinned and blanched, a habit of biting the insides of her mouth to keep unpleasant opinions to herself. 

“You hate it,” Harry stated.

The shabby cottage was not his ideal accommodation, either. He had much rather they stayed at The Harrison, where all the other officials were housed for the conference. Those lucky bastards were probably lounging poolside by now.

This, like many other work-related mishaps, was another one of Debbie’s mistakes; she had simply forgotten to make reservations. Hermione’s assistant was a sweet, effervescent, and _very_ old lady who would lose her head if it was not attached to her neck. In true fashion, Hermione put up with her frequent slip-ups because “it’s important for someone her age to have stimulating work.”

As the Head Auror and a newly-minted Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—respectively—they were attending the summit for the Wizarding European Security Council. With all hotels fully booked for international guests and their entourage, Harry scrambled to find them a place to stay. This cottage was the only available rental space within a short Apparition.

“It’s not…that I _hate_ it,” she began. At the skeptical angle of his eyebrow, her grimace broke through her attempts at civility. “Okay, I do. I truly hate it. It’s a bit…”—her nose scrunched—“erm…shabby.”

“Oh, my, Miss Granger,” Harry teased as he nudged her. “Who could have known that after your promotion, you’d start putting on airs?”

She shoved him lightly. “Oh, come off it! I lived in a bloody tent with _you_ for months on end. A public loo feels like five-star luxury after _that_.” Her arms folded over her chest. “It’s just…I don’t know, Harry. Something feels _off_ here. Weird.”

Harry glanced around. Sure, the house gave off that neglected vibe—faded wallpaper that peeled at the corners, cloudy windows that fought the sunlight, an old record player with a finger’s width of dust. But Harry was desensitized to the uncanny, and it surprised him that Hermione, who was the more pragmatic of the two of them, would be so suspicious.

“Should we try another place?” Harry offered. “The next available hotel is far—we would have to take a Portkey to the meeting halls. But if you’d rather not stay here—”

Hermione shook her head. “No! No, don’t mind me,”—she chuckled, rolling her eyes in a self-deprecating manner—“I don’t know why I’m feeling so paranoid. I’m just tired from traveling.”

His eyes skimmed her wind-swept curls and ruddy cheeks. He bit back a grin as he remembered the way she clutched the fabric of his shirt and buried her face against the crook of his neck. He had flown them to the cottage—at a _reasonable_ speed—but it was likely enough to spike her stress levels. “That’s probably it,” he said magnanimously. He pried her fingers from the handle of her bag, which he threw over his shoulder. “Why don’t you rest up while I put these in the guest rooms?”

“Nonsense!” She grinned, though her eyes were still wide with trepidation. “The rental agent said the refrigerator has food, right? I’ll whip us up some dinner while you put your things away.”

He pasted a smile on his face, fighting the grimace that threatened to surface. For all her brilliance, Hermione was hopeless in the kitchen. The thought of her cooking dinner was more frightening than anything supernatural hiding inside this creepy little cottage. "Sure," he drawled, suffusing his tone with false confidence.

She saw through it, anyway, resulting in her pointy elbow jamming painfully into his ribs.

* * *

 

For the first time in seventy years, Denise was glad she no longer possessed a sense of smell. The pot on the stove bubbled. Purple broth spilled over the sides, hitting the fire with an angry hiss.

Harry, the man with the dreamy eyes, popped his head into the kitchen, eyeing the pot warily. “Anything I can do to help, Hermione?”

Hermione smiled and shooed him away with a dishrag, which sported suspicious scorched fringes. “Not at all, Harry. Go and relax while I finish up.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to the pot. “What, erm,”—he draped against the doorframe casually, though his green eyes glimmered with fear—“whatcha cooking?”

The chipper woman lifted the lid and stuck a wooden spoon in the purple liquid. “I’m just boiling us some chicken.”

Harry hummed. He wandered aimlessly around the tiny kitchen, glancing at the crowded countertops. He opened the door to the small refrigerator before quickly closing it. “Chicken…and vegetables? Lots of…rhubarb?”

Without glancing up, Hermione shook her head. “Nope. _Just_ chicken.”

His fist shot up and covered his mouth; he turned an awful shade of puce. “Hmmm." Luckily, she didn't glance from the stove, so it sounded as though he looked forward to such a meal. After an audible gulp, he rasped, “You’re right, I should probably go lie down. Um, I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Call you when dinner’s ready!” Hermione yelled over her shoulder. When Harry’s footsteps disappeared into a bedroom, her face fell. She glowered at the contents of the pot. “ _Bollocks_. Why is it _purple_?”

Denise peered over Hermione’s shoulder and tutted. “This isn't a murder-suicide thing, I hope,” she muttered.

Hermione gasped sharply, her posture stiffening. She whipped her head in Denise’s direction. “Who’s there?!” Large brown eyes searched the empty space.

Despite the twinge of guilt at scaring the woman, Denise vibrated with excitement. The sun had finally rested beyond the horizon—which meant Halloween was in full effect. She laced her fingers and stretched her palms out in front of her. There were two perfectly lovely and attractive people in the house tonight. Sure, one of them couldn’t cook for her life, but the other’s charitable reaction to her paltry skills belied something else.

A potential for a good match.

With Halloween on her side, Denise was going to make this matchmaking opportunity count. 

* * *

 

His fingers raked through his hair while he stared at the plate in consternation. He had looked around the kitchen; peeked into the pot; looked for any discernible evidence in the refrigerator. Still, he didn’t know how it could have happened.

_Why was this chicken so purple?_

It sat, pathetic yet menacing, in the middle of the plate. It didn’t even have the decency to be one _shade_ of purple—rather, it was mottled like a healing bruise and crisp like a dry scab. He couldn’t stop looking at it.

And the smell. Dear _god_ , the smell—

A heavy sigh tugged on his attention. Hermione gazed at her plate, her lips twisted in a perplexed frown. Hermione was a confident woman—and she was blessed with an arsenal of talents. Cooking wasn’t one of them, and she knew it. It had bothered her ever since their time on the run—being unable to cook something as simple as a fried egg as easily as she could whip up a batch of Amortentia.

She peered at him from under her fine, dark lashes. “You don’t have to eat it,” she muttered, “if you don’t want.”

At her forlorn expression, Harry squared his shoulders. He challenged the meat with a scowl. He was Harry Potter, Head Auror. Harry Potter, Vanquisher of the Dark Lord. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

It would be a shame if a chicken breast did him in. But another glance at his best friend’s face strengthened his resolve.

He stabbed the tines of his fork through the tough meat and sawed off a chunk.

“Harry—wait—”

He popped it in his mouth, chewing through the hard exterior.

Hermione’s face underwent a spectacle of emotions—surprise, horror, admiration, and, finally, apprehension. “How does it taste?” she whispered.

Harry nodded his head slowly as he chewed on both his thoughts and the resilient piece of meat. Truly, he had tasted nothing like it. It had hints of chicken, but also charred Brussel sprouts and sourdough bread and even sweet Concord grapes. There was really only one word to describe it. “It tastes very…purple.”

A rosy blush bloomed in her cheeks. “Oh, good,” she said, attacking her own entrée with gusto. “That’s exactly what I was going for.” She eyed the wedge of chicken breast on her fork with dread before placing it in her mouth. Her face contorted with disgust before they both burst out with laughter.

“ _Oh—I!_ ” Nick Van Eede’s soulful voice interrupted them as the record player jumped to life. “ _I just died in your arms tonight! It must have been something you said…_ ”

Hermione chuckled. “Very funny.”

Harry’s laughter trailed off. “What?” he murmured around the stubborn morsel in his mouth.

“The _song_ ,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “’I just died in your arms tonight.’ Right after you ate my food. Har-har.” She stabbed another piece of chicken and ate it.

He shook his head slowly. “ _I_ didn’t do it.” He glanced at the living room, where the record turned on the table, unimpeded. The Eighties power ballad continued to play. “I wonder how it turned on by itself.”

* * *

 

Mood music was an important aspect of an intimate dinner. Unfortunately for all of them, there was only one vinyl record in the entire cottage—the single by a band called Cutting Crew.

It didn’t quite accomplish the atmosphere that Denise wanted.

After the song played, the two finished their dinners in silence. Then, Harry went off to take a shower. Hermione insisted on doing the clean-up, both as a thank-you for his courage in trying her cuisine and as a penance for making such a ghastly dish.

As Hermione hummed to herself in the kitchen, Denise wandered down the short hallway. They were staying in separate rooms—Harry’s bags were sprawled at the foot of his twin-sized bed, while Hermione’s sleepwear was laid out on the floral bedsheet in the larger room.

Denise entered the latter. It was a cozy space; bedside tables flanked the wide mattress. But it was also the more romantic of the two rooms—one table held a small vase of fresh flowers while the other table was loaded with candles.

Denise eyed the matchbook at the edge of the table with glee. Flowers, candles, and a large, inviting mattress—the three ingredients for a romantic night!

Summoning the supernatural magic of Halloween, Denise willed her body to be more solid. It took a few tries, but eventually, she was able to pick up the matchbook. She squealed at her success.

She tore off a match and swiped it across the striker strip. She giggled with joy.

Carefully, she lit each candle until the room glowed golden-yellow. Denise jumped with excitement—and, in her elation, had forgotten how solid she was. Her celebrating limbs knocked the flurry of candles off the table—and onto the old, goose down mattress.

“Ah…” Her eyes widened with horror as flames took hold of the fabric. “ _Shit._ ”

* * *

 

The odor of burned feathers assaulted him as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom. “ _Hermione?!_ ” he yelled, partly afraid that something bad had happened to her—and partly scared that she had thought to make dessert.

As he ran down the hallway, however, the orange glow underneath Hermione’s bedroom door made his heart stutter.

“HERMIONE!” Harry kicked her door open. Flames engulfed the mattress; briefly, it flared with the rush of oxygen inside the room.

“Harry?” Hermione called from the other side of the cottage. Her quick footsteps pattered on the wooden floor as she ran up behind him. Her eyes widened with shock. “Harry, what the—”

The rest of her sentiment was muffled as he smothered her in a tight embrace. “ _Fuck_ ,” he muttered into her hair. “I thought— _damn it_ —”

Her small hand rubbed comforting circles on his back. “Erm, Harry?” she murmured into his chest, where he inadvertently had pressed her face. “I-I’m _fine_. But, we should probably do something about that fire before it gets any bigger.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry loosened his grip. He kept his left arm around her shoulder, pressing her against his side. His right hand swished his wand, putting out the fire with a strong _Aguamenti_.

The charred husk of a bed smoldered. “Well. There goes our security deposit.” She glanced at Harry. “Any idea how _that_ happened?”

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “No _fucking_ idea.” He sighed. “We’ll just deal with it in the morning. You can take my bed; I’ll sleep in the living room.” Hermione rooted to the ground, staring at the bed as if Confunded. “Hermione?”

She started at his voice. “Sorry,” she stammered with a slight shake of her head. “It’s just—my clothes were on my bed.”

Without another word, Harry shrugged out of his white tee-shirt shirt. “Here.”

“Oh, Harry—”

“ _Hermione_.” He’d had a long day—they both had. Between the chicken breast from hell and this most recent ordeal, he felt like melting in a puddle from emotional exhaustion. He shoved the shirt in her hands. “Please, just take it, okay? I’ll be fine in just my boxers for the night.”

Her gaze dropped to his plain black boxers—then rode up his torso slowly, following the faint line of dark hair below his bellybutton; up to his chest, made broad and toned from years of Auror training; before finally resting on his face.

Her cheeks grew as crimson as a Gryffindor tie. Hermione had never looked so guilty.

He expected his stomach to curl in mortification; instead, his heart pounded in his ears. His _best friend_ ’ _s_ gaze just raked over his body. Rather than feeling awkward or offended, he felt…heated. He glanced over her shoulder to make sure the blaze hadn’t started up again.

Hermione's eyes glued to the scuffed wooden floor. She clutched his shirt against her chest.

Harry cleared his throat. “I’m going to,”—he nudged his head towards the living room—“erm, just going to get some sleep. Are you going to be okay?”

Without removing her gaze from the floor, Hermione nodded and shuffled past him quietly.

The bathroom door clicked before Harry deemed it safe to come out of the room.

* * *

By the time Denise entered the bathroom, Hermione had finished showering. She was already dressed in Harry’s white tee-shirt, which hung halfway down her thighs.

Denise leaned against the cool tiles in the bathroom, gazing as Hermione readied for bed. She brushed and flossed her teeth with meticulous care, glaring at her reflection and mumbling something under her breath. Then she gathered her curls, twisting it up into a knot.

Hermione had the most _amazing_  tresses—wild, bordering on bushy. Denise had the most _boring_ hair of any woman alive or dead—flat and mousy brown. Hermione’s hair sprung with life. Each curl was wound tight, and Denise had the gnawing urge to see if one would coil around her finger.

Denise reached a hand into Hermione’s hair. “Ooh,” she crooned as she played with Hermione’s envy-inducing curls. “I’d _kill_ to have this hair!”

* * *

 

“Oh my _gods_ ,” Hermione groaned at her reflection as she flossed her teeth. “Hermione. You dumb witch. _Why_ did you just check out your best friend?”

A part of her argued that it was _his_ fault— _he_ was the one who brought her attention to his state of undress. Past that point, her eyes couldn’t help traveling up his muscled torso. Harry worked hard as an Auror, chasing evil wizards and taking them down. His toned body was proof positive of how seriously he took his job.

And, for Merlin’s sake—Hermione was still a _woman_. Faced with a body as fine as Harry’s, it was easy to throw propriety under the Knight Bus.

She tossed the floss in the garbage bin. Her hands started on her hopeless hair. “Well, it’s bad enough that you probably poisoned him tonight.” Her fingers combed her locks into a manageable bunch. “And then you give him the once-over like he’s some hot piece of a—”

The word garbled in her mouth as a third hand scratched slowly over her skull.

As Hermione stared at the mirror, a form took shape behind her. A woman—pale and gaunt, with a covetous gleam in her eyes as she raked her bony fingers through Hermione’s curls.

The frightening apparition growled. “I’d  _kill_ to have this hair!”

* * *

Hermione’s shriek jolted him awake; in the space of a blink, he was on his feet and running to her. They bumped into each other in the hallway.

“What happened?” He placed a hand on each shoulder. She trembled underneath his fingers.

“Harry!” She took a shaky breath. “I-I think there’s a ghost here that wants to kill me!”

“What?” He shook his head, clearing the last cobwebs of sleep.

“A ghost! It grabbed me in the bathroom and said it was going to kill me for my hair!” She placed a hand on either side of his face, forcing him to look her square in the eye. “I think it’s been trying to kill me all night. Maybe poisoned our food—set my _bed_ on fire!” She gasped as knowledge dawned in her eyes. “And the _song_! It was probably some sort of veiled _threat_ —”

Harry shook her shoulders lightly. “Hey!”

She blinked. Slowly, calm and composure settled over her. “I know what I saw, Harry.” Her voice was low and breathy but resolute.

Harry nodded. Hermione didn’t scare easily—and if she was acting like this, there had to be a good reason.

For the next half hour, they scoured the cottage. Harry threw the most sensitive Dark energy detection spells at each nook and cranny, trying to find evidence of Hermione’s attacker.

By two in the morning, they were still empty-handed.

“Listen, we’ve only got a few hours left before daylight,” Harry said. “Why don’t we try to get some rest? We’re both useless with a wand at this rate.”

With a sigh, Hermione nodded. Harry moved away, intending to go back to his makeshift bed in the living room when Hermione tugged at his wrist.

“Stay with me tonight?” she asked, her voice depleted with emotion.

Worried for her state _and_ her safety, Harry followed her into the bedroom. 

* * *

 

This was not the first time he and Hermione had shared a bed. While on the run, they occasionally huddled on a single cot, more concerned about preventing frostbites than thinking about which parts of their teenage bodies were touching.

Tonight, frostbite was _not_ Harry’s main concern. Not with the way they fit together on the narrow bed—with Hermione’s back flush against Harry’s front. It was the only way they could lie down without knocking each other over the edge—lying flat on their backs was not an option, and they accidentally kicked each other too much when they laid back to back.

The room temperature, which had been toasty just minutes before, had plunged without warning. Hermione shifted in his arms, trying to get into a comfortable position. Her fragrant curls tickled his nose. The shape of her tucked into him was different from those frigid nights in the tent. Gone was the scrawniness of youth. Beside him on this twin mattress was all _woman_.

It brought on a whole new set of problems.

As she burrowed closer, her backside grazed against his Fairly Obvious Problem—and she froze. “Erm…Harry?”

His eyes squeezed shut, dreading her next words.

“Harry,”—her voice was oddly careful—“I’m…cold.”

“Oh?” he rasped.

Without waiting for a response, she shifted her position to face him. “Um…could you…hold me closer? It’s so chilly.”

His heart squeezed—whether from the anticipation of her nearness or the look in her eyes. Nervous but warm—but, no. Not warm.

Her gaze was _blistering_.

Silently, he complied with her request. His arm curled under her shoulders, rolling her closer.

Her leg hitched up and over his hip. The hem of her shirt— _his_ shirt, which looked enticing on her frame—rode up to the tops of her thighs. He hovered his palm over her bare skin, waiting for her to object. When she didn’t, he pressed his hand against her, his eager fingers exploring her lean thigh.

Hermione laid her palms on his chest. _Her_ hands were just as adventurous—traveling over his shoulders, testing the bulk of his upper arms, and surveying his chest. His abdominal muscles clenched as her warm fingers followed their corrugation. They reached the elastic band of his boxers; she scratched the edge with her blunt nails.

His hand had found its way under her shirt, tracing the outline of her knickers with unsteady fingers.

“Hermione.” His voice was alien to his ears—veiled with caution, trepidation, and warning.

And a fair bit of begging, too.

“Yes, Harry.” Her tone was rock-steady, and so _very_ ‘Hermione’ that it rooted him in this odd reality—one in which his best friend’s touch seared his skin, and he ached to respond in kind.

Her dark eyes were sincere and urgent—it gave him the courage to dip his head down to meet hers.

When he got his first taste of her soft, full lips, he was a goner.

* * *

“ _Oh. My God_.” Denise hissed as the couple tangled on the bed. Years— _decades_ —of failed attempts at matchmaking had culminated in _this_.

She had lost all hope after she accidentally showed herself to Hermione in the bathroom. As thin as the Veil was on Halloween, she had briefly taken on a corporeal form—one that scared the dickens out of the poor woman.

However, after finding them squeezed together on the narrow mattress, she made a last-ditch effort at matchmaking with her the chilling-the-room trick. “ _And it actually worked!_ ” she whispered excitedly.

It was nearing dawn, and Halloween’s effects were waning. Still, she was careful to keep her voice down lest she startled them out of their sexy mood.

Although, between the rhythmic squeaks of the mattress coils and their loud, carnal moans, Denise doubted they would notice if fireworks exploded above their bed.

Floating on air—literally and figuratively—Denise flew up to the rooftop. She spread her arms out as she twirled. “Finally!” she hollered. “I’m the _queen_ of _love_!”

Her ghostly laugh echoed in the sleepy village. 

* * *

 

The first of November dawned with the sensation of her best friend’s warmth.

His _naked_ warmth.

Hermione’s eyes snapped open. Harry’s were still closed, the muscles of his face relaxed in peaceful slumber. Soft morning light filtered through the window, outlining his profile with a beatific glow.

“Quit staring at me,” he mumbled.

She nuzzled the crook of his neck. “Oh, but do you _really_ want me to stop?” she asked, her lips grazing his skin. Mere hours ago, she would never have imagined doing this to her best friend. Now, it seemed all sorts of _right_.

His eyes cracked open, revealing emerald eyes full of mirth. “Only long enough so I can do _this_.” He leaned down and captured her lips in a delightful, adrenaline-inducing kiss.

Minutes later, their limbs were still twisted around each other. “Erm, Harry?”

He mumbled incoherently against her breast. For a moment, she reveled in the vibrations he made on her sensitive patch of skin.

“Harry, we’ve got to go soon.”

He pulled back, gaping at her with exaggerated betrayal.

“ _Work_ , remember?” she prodded. “The conference? The reason why we’re here?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He rolled over to the side, disappointment settling on his lips. “Wait—should we, erm, _talk_ about this, maybe?” He eyed her with a guarded expression. “What do you think about last night?” he whispered.

Her eyebrows inched up her forehead as she gauged his reaction. “It was…spectacular sex?” she offered.

His face broke out in a radiant smile. “It really was, wasn’t it?”

She giggled— _truly_ giggled like a lovestruck schoolgirl. A part of her was rolling its eyes, but a larger part was too busy basking in post-coital glow to care. “Want to do it again when we get back to London?” she asked. “Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

“I’m _pretty_ sure that the spectacular-ness of our sex _wasn’t_ by coincidence. But, for you, I’ll be a willing test subject. I’ll perform until you’re satisfied with the results. And then some.” Harry gathered her in his arms and grazed her lips with a chaste kiss—but it was the _best_ type of kiss.

It was a kiss filled with promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments/Kudos are appreciated!


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